Pain
by Luna Rubra
Summary: When you can't trust the one thing you cherished the most - the one thing that you have lived by so far - what is to be done? When your mind turn on you, who should you trust?


In times of despair, everyone has an anchor, something to hold onto to avoid being smashed by the crumbling world around them. Some hold onto their families, their vices, their friends. Some hold onto their chains and duty, but whatever it is that people chose, the purpose of the anchor is the same: to help you keep your feet on the ground as the storm rages around you.

The anchor should help you keep your sanity, although, admittedly, it doesn't always work that way.

Not long ago she'd come to the realization of one variable inherent to nearly all the equations that permeated the world of the living, and thought that it couldn't be a coincidence. So, in a dark room, alone and in silence, dead to the world, she chose it as her anchor; an anchor that few did or would chose. The pain cut through her cloudy thoughts and left a bright, red gash on its way. Stinging, burning. And in that moment, she tried to make that pain fill her world, her present, silencing all that was not the burning itch crawling over her skin. Never did she cherish the silence as she did now. The silence and the shadows filled her surroundings and embraced her in a way that made her feel protected, safe. The pain isolated part of her mind and forced her to deny everything else, even herself. But as it happens in most of the powerful numbing drugs, its effects were fleeting.

In a few moments, the noise was back. She winced and shook, hugging herself even tighter and trying to curl into a ball even smaller, wishing to disappear. No matter what she did, the noise was always back. Still hugged to herself, her nails dug into her skin and she felt the blood flow. As she dragged her hands down her arms and her nails ripped her skin, a few, viscous droplets combined to form a single, heavy and red drop that slowly, languidly, ran towards her elbows. Her fingers were bloody, her skin was sticky, ruined, but the pain - ah! The pain brought the silence once again.

It was nothing compared to some more meaningful and significant types of pain: childbirth, withdrawal, a knife plunged in your lung. It was pain in homeopathic doses, meant to shroud an even greater, more distressing kind of pain. She'd had a different anchor, once. It was simple, solid and true. Someone worth being the foundation of her life; a personality much more solid then a castle made of sand, easily washed by the waves. And now that he was gone, she felt shredded. Torn.

And then the voices came.

Relief was always short lived, as the pain quickly faded from a sharp anguish to a throbbing nuisance in the back of her mind. When that happened, she dug her nails on her skin once again, but this time silence didn't set in. Instead, she heard the heavy footsteps before seeing a shadow blocking the light beneath the door. He hesitated, she wasn't sure for how long, before knocking.

"Aiwyn?", he called. He knocked again, his heavy fist hitting the door sounding like a thunder before the storm. "It's me. I know you are there."

But she didn't answer.

"I'm worried," he continued. "Are you okay?"

It was pointless to state his worry out loud, she thought. She could feel it in his actions, in his voice. And despite the silence not being the best answer to dispel his worries, to show that everything was okay, she couldn't find her voice right now. He didn't wait to hear it too.

"I'm coming in, Aiwyn," he said. As he lit some candles and looked for her, something inside his gut froze. "By the L-... Aiwyn! What are you doing?"

His clanging armor shattered the silence when he rushed to her, grabbing both of her hands. There was some resistance that was easily overwhelmed by his firm grip and guidance. In one moment she was curled into a ball in the corner of her shadowy room, and in the next he'd sat her on her short bed. A professional firmness came over him and he brought some warm water and rummaged through her pouch to find healing herbs and pieces of linen cloth. The scratches were cleaned, sterilized and covered with healing ointments. But beneath his professional care, with which he neatly wrapped her arm in clean bandages, there was a more personal concern. She avoided his gaze, despite feeling his eyes jumping from her wounds to her face. It was a different kind of silence, and it took her a while to understand what was hovering over his presence, like a bad omen: it was guilt. He shouldn't have left her alone.

When her bandages were done, he sank her hand in the warm water and started to wash the blood off her fingers.

"Aiwyn," he started again, almost reluctant. "Tell me what's going on."

Despite having the strong hands of a warrior, his strength was measured to help, calculated to protect, and so his touch was gentle. She appreciated that.

"Please," he urged. "What did you do? Why?"

Deep down she didn't want to drag him to the problems of her sinking mind, but apparently it was too late to think of that.

"Because…" she started, but then hesitated.

Despite her resistance, her stubbornness and scars, she had to give it to him. He waited patiently for her to drop her shields and open up, something she hardly did. At least before he arrived.

"Pain is real."

With the same gentle touch that took care of her wounds, he raised her chin with the tip of his fingers so that their eyes would meet.

"So am I," he said. "Stay with me."


End file.
